


In Drunkenness and in Sobriety

by Palebluedot



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Drunk Arthur, Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, Marriage Proposal, Tumblr Prompt, but yeah arthur drinks and it's a plot point, canon!verse, don't drink stay in school kids, i wouldn't call it alcohol ABUSE, like a lot of fluff, proposal fic, rated T because alcohol, this makes me so happy ok
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-29
Updated: 2015-04-29
Packaged: 2018-03-26 07:36:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,318
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3842476
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Palebluedot/pseuds/Palebluedot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for this prompt: </p>
<p>"you were drunk and proposed to me but i’m not sure how to bring it up now you’re sober bc i totally would have said yes au"</p>
<p>Or, the one where Arthur gets drunk again, but Merlin doesn't mind so much this time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Drunkenness and in Sobriety

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bbcemrys (jimnovaq)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jimnovaq/gifts).



> prompt passed onto me by the incredible bbcemrys - thanks for that friend, I had a lot of fun with this one.

Gwaine is an enabler, and Merlin is going to have him killed. He doesn't exactly have any definite _proof_ that this is his fault, but whenever Arthur ends up face-down on a table surrounded by overturned goblets that were at one point full to the brim with...God knows what, Merlin's learned to blame him automatically. After all, he always seems to be sprawled out right next to him, usually still trying to call for more wine. That's alright with Merlin, though. He doesn't have to deal with Gwaine after he's been drinking. Arthur, on the other hand.... 

“I'm the _King_ ,” slurs the great prat, like he's only just now figured that bit out. Honestly, the amount of sense he's got, Merlin wouldn't be surprised if that were true. Getting him to forget it again, and permanently – now _that_ would be the trick. 

“I noticed.” While Merlin's having people offed, maybe he should go after the local architect, too. There are entirely too many staircases in this castle. “Watch your step, love. We're almost home.”

Right on cue, Arthur stumbles again, and very nearly takes Merlin down with him. Merlin pulls Arthur's arm a little further across his shoulders, tightens his grip round his waist, and forcefully reminds himself that it would, in fact, be quite the tragedy if His Royal Drunkenness were to slip and crack his head on the stone floor.

“I can do... _whatever_ I want,” Arthur decides, not seeming to notice the fall he could have taken. 

_Yeah, except look at your bloody feet while you're walking_. If he trods on Merlin's toes one more time, he is going to wake up in a cupboard tomorrow morning, and Merlin is going to laugh at him. “Of course you can,” he replies absently, trying to figure out how in the hell he's going to open the door to Arthur's chamber without dropping him like a stupid, drunk-off-his-arse sack of potatoes. Unfortunately, magic probably isn't an option. Even in this less-than-aware state, there's at least half a chance Arthur would notice if the door flew open all by itself. Finally, he decides he's just going to have to put the useless lump down for a moment. As for getting him up again....well. He'll cross that bridge when he comes to it.

He unhooks Arthur's arm from his shoulders, and manages to prop him up against the wall, where he promptly sinks to the floor, head lolling forward between his knees. At least he's easy to keep track of. Merlin opens the door and turns back to find Arthur staring up at him, brow furrowed and looking oddly thoughtful. “I really could do whatever I wanted, couldn't I?”

“Right. Up you get, now.” Merlin grabs hold of Arthur's arms, braces himself, and heaves. Arthur lurches forward and crashes spectacularly into his front and stays there, hips-to-hips and chest-to-chest, chin somewhere above Merlin's shoulder. If Arthur's breath didn't smell so strongly of ale, and if they weren't still out in the open corridor, this would be very nice indeed. But it does, and they are, so it isn't. “Let's get you inside.” 

Merlin somehow manages to guide a tottering, staggering Arthur across the room and to the foot of his bed without either of them colliding into anything but each other, and yeah, he's seriously considering demanding a medal tomorrow because he's fairly certain that there is not another man alive who could have pulled that one off. He gets Arthur sitting upright, and goes to work on his boots.

“D'you suppose I could marry anyone I wanted?” And oh good, Arthur's still reveling in his own omnipotence. This will be fun. 

“Suppose you could. You are the King.” Arthur's laces are tied far too tight. Merlin hates these laces. He wants to set them on fire.

“Don't wanna marry jus' anyone, though.” Arthur's words are blending together more than ever now, but Merlin doesn't miss the fact that they appear to have been carefully chosen. Or at least as carefully chosen as any words can be after their speaker's drunk half the kingdom's taverns dry. This is mildly troubling. But at least he's gotten one of Arthur's boots off.

“Most people don't.” And _a-ha_ , there goes the second boot. He's _won_. And now, there's not much left to do here at all. 

Merlin's just stood up to pull off Arthur's shirt for him when it happens.

“I want to marry _you_.”

There are times when everything, absolutely everything, seems to revolve around the pace of Merlin's heart. Like the moon has aligned in such a way so as to pull the pulsing beat of red blood beneath his skin to the very center of the ebb and flow of the stars themselves. This is one of those times, and so the entire world skips a beat. Stutters. Falters. Stops.

Then it starts up again, right as it should, but it's not quite the same. Like there's been an extra color mixed into it, but Merlin can't pick it out from the ones he used to know, and doesn't know if he'd like the look of it if he could.

_Yes,_ is what he thinks. _You, I'd marry in a heartbeat. Less than that. And I'd do it again and again and again, if you asked me to._

“...You could do a lot worse,” is what he says, tugging the shirt over Arthur's head and walking it to the wardrobe. It takes him rather longer to hang it up than it might have on another day. His fingers are unsteady, almost shaky, and he is being ridiculous. Arthur's blind drunk, and not himself. He doesn't know what he's saying, and he will not remember it come morning. He's probably already forgotten. Seems like something he would do. 

Which is for the best, of course. It's not like it could ever _happen_. Not here. Not now. Not them.

He turns around to finish putting Arthur to bed, and finds that he's already passed out, lying in a contorted and spread-eagle sort of way over the entire bed. He's even started to snore. Just in time, Merlin supposes. It's a bit chilly tonight, so he wrestles a blanket out from under the dead weight of Arthur and lays it over him, taking care to roll him on his side the way Gaius taught him to do for anybody unconscious and in danger of being sick. Then he blows out the candle by the bed, leaving them with nothing but moonlight and a faint spray of wax.

He glances back over at Arthur, all silver and pale with the soft glow streaming in through the window, and can't help but smile. He looks absurd when he sleeps, mouth open, and face sort of crushed into the pillow. He's bound to start drooling, soon.

God, Merlin loves him.

He pulls the curtains closed, and then the moon's gone, too, so it's just the two of them. Here in this room. Merlin crosses back over to the bed in the dark, leans down, and presses a kiss to Arthur's temple. Absently cards his fingers through his hair, just once, and then straightens out and moves towards the door. If his feet didn't know the way by heart, he'd be missing the candle right about now, but he makes it there without incident. Almost exactly the way he came in, then.

He has a thought then, one he has nearly every night – _I wish I didn't have to go_. Technically, he supposes nothing's really _stopping_ him from retracing his steps and sleeping curled up next to Arthur under the covers. After all, they've gotten up to rather more scandalous things in that bed. He can't imagine Arthur would turn him away tonight. 

But people talk. People always talk, even when – no, especially when – the King himself is involved, and it's none of their business anyway. Granted, the odds of someone being nosy enough to find out where he spent the night are slim. Even so, they're just enough to push the door open, close it behind him, and send him home. 

When he finally falls asleep, in his own bed, Merlin's almost managed to forget the way the bottom dropped out of his stomach when Arthur told him he wanted to marry him.

 ~+~+~+~+~+~ 

Arthur Pendragon has never, not once in his life, ever met a hangover with anything even vaguely resembling grace, and this morning is no exception. It's almost midday when Merlin finally decides that this has gone on quite long enough, and flings opens the curtains. 

“Rise and shine!” And alright, maybe he's a little louder than he needs to be. He considers it revenge for his bruised toes. 

There's a sound from underneath the vaguely Arthur-shaped bundle of blankets on the bed that brings to mind wounded wildlife and hurt feelings. Even though all this is _entirely_ Arthur's own fault, Merlin could almost feel sorry for him. 

Almost. 

“You're certainly chipper this morning,” Merlin grins. He leans over and gives Arthur's shoulders a shake. “It's time to get up.”

Another groan.

Fine then. He's made his choice.

Merlin takes hold of the corner of the blanket Arthur's burrowed under, and yanks it back. Arthur, predictably, resists. But fortunately for Merlin, after a night like last night, he's weak as a kitten, and it's like taking candy from a baby. A very, very hungover baby. “Come on, you're the _King_ , remember? You can't just lounge around in bed all day.” 

“But I'm the King. And I say I can.” 

“He speaks!” Merlin's genuinely surprised. Usually it takes him much longer to get to that point. “Well, you do what you like, but I'm not bringing you your breakfast. So if you want to eat, you'd better find a way to get to the table.” And yeah, Merlin's already got breakfast at the ready because he knows what he's doing when it comes to Arthur, thankyouverymuch, and he's bound to be starving. 

Arthur looks ready for murder, but he sits up on his own, which Merlin sees as an improvement from last night. He drags his legs over the edge of the bed and rests his head in his hands. “Just...give me a moment. I need to gather strength.” 

Merlin rolls his eyes and swoops down to kiss Arthur's cheek. Arthur grumbles. Merlin smiles. “Come on, your food'll get cold.”

Finally, Arthur stands, and, once he's confident that he's not going to fall, Merlin tosses him a shirt. Arthur blinks at it a moment, puzzled, before putting it on. 

Merlin really has no clue what Arthur would do without him. 

Arthur shuffles over to the table and, somewhat unsteadily, sits. “Merlin, go and fetch me – ”

“I've already had Gaius fix you a headache potion, it's right here by your plate. He wanted me to remind you you'll be needing plenty of water today.” Merlin pointedly nudges the pitcher towards him. “So drink up.”

Arthur considers this. “Last time I heard that, some very bad things happened.” He eyes the small vial of potion suspiciously, twists off the cork, then downs it all in one go, wincing. “This tastes like dirt. Tell me, did I do anything terribly stupid last night?”

Oh. Right. That. 

“Er...no more than usual.” Alright, Merlin's lying. He's lying through his damn teeth and he is going to continue to lie for as long as he can, because, well, even if he did speak up, Arthur was _drunk_ , so Merlin would tell him to forget about it anyway. This is just saving a step. Merlin prides himself on his efficiency, after all. Or at least, he plans to start.

Arthur gives him a _look_ and it's _just_ Merlin's luck that Arthur would pick _now_ to start being mildly observant. “Come off it, I know there's something you're not telling me. Don't tell me I was singing tavern songs with Gwaine – I told you to _never_ let me do that again. I do have an image to maintain,” he says, shoveling eggs into his mouth.

“You didn't.” Merlin busies himself with pouring out a glass of water. “You really need to drink something.” 

“Don't change the subject – if I did something the knights know about and I don't, I'll never be able to recover.”

“The knights weren't there. Happy?” 

“What – no!” Arthur splutters. “For God's sake Merlin, just tell me!”

Merlin considers his options. Arthur is very clearly not going to drop this. So, he can either refuse to tell him what happened, and make it weird, or he can tell him. And still make it weird.

Better not to draw it out, then.

His heart feeling a little closer to the throat region than is strictly comfortable, Merlin spreads his hands. “Fine. Do you really want to know?”

Arthur blinks at him like he's gone mad. Maybe he's onto something there. “Yes!”

“Alright.” Merlin swallows hard, takes his first step over the cliff face – “You proposed marriage. To me. Right there.” Merlin points to the foot of Arthur's bed, leaving his arm out there just a bit too long. When he finally remembers to let it go, the dull slap of his hand hitting his thigh is the only sound in the room. When that dies out, nothing beyond the faint, previously inaudible chirping of birds and chatter of guards outside the window comes to take its place.

Arthur's eyes are roughly twice as wide as eyes are generally supposed to be. _Yeah,_ _keep that up all day_ _and you'll be_ _about_ _where I am now_ , Merlin thinks. “I _proposed_?”

“Well, you didn't so much _ask_ me as just _tell_ me you wanted to get married, but yes. Basically, you proposed.” 

Arthur's face does something complicated that vaguely translates to _It is too early in the morning for this_ _I have a few regrets_ _and also my head hurts._ This is about what Merlin had expected.

“What was your answer?”

That was...less expected. 

“You passed out before I could say much of anything, really. Anyway, it doesn't matter. You couldn't even stand, I wasn't taking you too seriously. Of course, I never take you too seriously.” Merlin tries for a smile. He's fairly certain it flops.

It gets quiet again, and Arthur's still sitting at the table, looking up at him, and Merlin's finding it harder and harder to meet his eye. “Well, what would you have said? If I hadn't been drinking, if I had...waited.”

Merlin scoffs a bit at that. “Why, are you asking again?”

Arthur doesn't say anything. Just keeps looking up at him. 

Oh.

_Oh_.

“...You _are_ , aren't you?”

Now it's Arthur who drops his gaze, and Merlin cannot _breathe_. “Well, that...rather depends on your answer.”

The room dissolves away into the pounding of Merlin's heart in his ears, his toes, his _everywhere_ , and he's starting to wonder if maybe _he's_ the drunkard this time, because he's forgotten what it feels like to have a firm grip on his balance, on anything, but his thoughts have never been so focused on just one word – 

“I would have said yes.”

Arthur's eyes shine with something like relief. Like joy. “Then I'm asking.” 

A smile melts across his face like sunshine, and what choice does Merlin have but to return it? They're both standing there grinning like stunned, elated fools, and it would be easy, so easy for Merlin to kiss him now, fall into his arms and promise yes and yes and _yes_ over every inch of his skin. But no, he won't be making this easy. They never make anything easy, the pair of them.

He can't wait to not make it easy for the rest of his life. 

Merlin cocks an eyebrow and folds his arms. “Well, you're hardly doing a proper job of it, are you?”

It is very, very hard not to laugh at the way Arthur's face collapses into the picture of confusion. “What?” 

“You're not down on bended knee, for one thing.”

Arthur blinks. “...Was I down on one knee last night?”

“No, so that's twice you've done it wrong. I'm starting to wonder if I can't get a better offer somewhere else.” Merlin raises his chin in what he hopes is a haughty manner, throws a lingering glance at the door, then looks expectantly back to Arthur.

Shaking his head and biting back a grin, Arthur very deliberately gets up from the table, walks to Merlin, and kneels in front of him. He takes Merlin's hand in both of his own, and his palms are a bit sticky. Merlin could have a bit of a cry over that, honestly – they don't ever tell you that, that even the King's hands get sweaty when he's nervous. That's something you have to be lucky enough to find out for yourself. “Better?”

Merlin looks down at him and realizes that, frankly, he's enjoying himself far too much to let this go just yet. “...Maybe. Start over.”

The sheer venom in the look Arthur shoots him then is enough to make Merlin lose it entirely. “You've _got_ to be joking.” 

“I'm dead serious,” says Merlin, laughing.

Arthur gives a deep, exceedingly put-upon sigh, and looks so far into Merlin's eyes he thinks he can feel his knees going a little weak. “Merlin, you're a complete prat, but I love you, and I don't want to spend one day without you. So, for what is now the third time, will you marry me?”

And now, _now_ must be the time to fall into Arthur's arms, because somehow Merlin finds himself there, kneeling with him on the stone floor, clinging to the idiot so tightly that they're both bound to suffer rib damage. He pulls back just enough to get a visual on Arthur's lips, which he all but smashes into with his own. The angle is awkward and they're kissing with noses bumping and teeth clacking like they've never done this before, but neither one of them can seem to stop.

“I take it that's a yes?” Arthur's lips are all kiss-swollen and his hair is wild and his eyes are bright, and Merlin is _not_ crying, but he is blinking furiously, and his throat's gone all tight, like the words he's reaching for are just too big to disentangle from the rest of his insides.

“Yeah. Yeah, it is.” He nods and cups Arthur's cheek, runs his thumb over his jawline. “Yes.”

“Good,” Arthur says, beaming, and a little part of Merlin might just fall in love all over again, head over heels, heels over head, tumbling madly all the way down.

“Can we...can we _do_ this?” 

Arthur scoffs. “I'm the King of Camelot, who's going to stop me?”

Merlin laughs at that, and Arthur doesn't quite understand why, but he will someday, because Merlin has the rest of their lives to explain it to him. And once he's finished with that, if he can somehow find the time, he'll also try to explain just how much he loves him, even when he hates him – but especially when he doesn't.

“It probably won't be easy,” Arthur continues. “But I will see to it that we can have this.” And they can. Of course they can, because today is theirs and so is tomorrow and the moon and the sun and the sky, and they can do anything they please with them. “There's just one thing you must do for me.”

“What's that?”

Arthur grimaces, and rubs at his temple. “At our wedding, you must make sure I don't even _think_ about drinking.” 

Merlin nods once, solemn and sure. “Fair point. You make terrible decisions when you're drunk.” 

“Mm, the worst.”

There's not much else to say then, so Merlin settles for kissing the man he is going to marry again, soft and promising, and through a smile. 

**Author's Note:**

> wow look it's the longest oneshot i've ever written. ever.
> 
> it got away from me a little bit.
> 
> also here is the post I got the prompt from ([x](http://67chevrolet.co.vu/post/115843696006/coffeeshop-aus))


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